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to get my hand stuck to the counter again.
    â€œThanks for that,” I said, searching the length of the bar for something to wipe my hand on. I didn’t see anything that would be of service, so I left it in its natural state.
    I glanced at the picture shining from my phone and turned the screen toward him once more. He didn’t look at it. But the stillness of his gaze seemed to require effort from him; he wasn’t as cool and relaxed as he’d been at the beginning of our conversation.
    â€œWhat if I told you this guy was dead?”
    He shrugged his shoulders. The impression was like the lifting and lowering of a fortress wall.
    â€œDo you want something to drink? If not, I’ll go serve somebody who does.”
    â€œHe died five years ago,” I said. “In the big flu epidemic.”
    â€œA lot of people died back then.”
    â€œTrue,” I said. “But not very many came back to life.”
    His hands stopped. He set the bottle of red wine he was holding in his right hand and the glass in his left hand down on the counter in front of him.
    â€œHow about I show you the door?” he said.
    â€œI’ve only had one beer,” I said. “But maybe that was just too much trouble for you. Or are you going to show me the door because of a guy who died of the flu five years ago?”
    I showed him Tarkiainen’s picture again, and once again he didn’t look at it.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” he asked. “No, never mind—I can find that out myself.”
    He straightened up, adjusted his stance, and towered over me, showing me his shoulders in all their broadness. Whoever invented the word “overbearing” must have had someone like him in mind.
    â€œWhy do you want to know my name?” I asked.
    He thrust his head forward but left his chin nearly resting on his chest. He looked at me from under his eyebrows, his lined cheeks completely in shadow.
    â€œSo I’ll know who I’m showing the door. So I can tell the other employees that there’s a guy named such-and-such who’s not allowed in here.”
    â€œAre you going to tell Pasi Tarkiainen the same thing?”
    He made a gesture toward the door. A gigantic block of solid muscle with a bald head the same bright, meaty pink color as raw salmon started to head in my direction.
    â€œSee you later,” I shouted.
    I headed for the block of muscle and the door, smelled aftershave a few meters ahead, and braced myself as well as I could for the bouncer to grab me by some part of my body. He looked at the bartender, then stepped aside and let me pass. I didn’t look behind me as I went down the stairs to the street and walked back to the taxi.
    Half an hour later I was lying in bed staring out at the dark of the night without seeing anything.
    I was thinking about Johanna—and trying not to think about her.
    The building was quiet. Nothing was moving; it felt like nothing anywhere was moving. It wasn’t until I lay down that I realized how tired I was, how much my body hurt, how hungry I was, and how hopeless I felt. I couldn’t bear to turn my face toward Johanna’s pillow, let alone pull her blanket over me, although I was shivering under my own.
    The rain tapped a rhythm against the windowsill, took a long pause before breaking out in a tight series of dozens of drops, then quieted again. I closed my eyes, listened to the wind and rain, and let my fists open and my muscles relax. Without realizing it, without wanting to, I fell asleep.

 
    ONE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

 
    10
    I rolled over in bed and reached for the phone on the night table. 6:05 a.m. Unknown number. I’d slept without dreaming for almost exactly three hours.
    â€œTapani Lehtinen,” I said, now fully awake as if I hadn’t slept at all—or had slept a long time. I’m not sure which it was.
    â€œLassi Uutela. I assume I don’t need to ask if I’ve called